Justice League Noir Chapter 3: Screensaver
by MightyBearShark
Summary: Down on the streets, words are shared, and not all are kind.


A sound I've come to know as the Wayne laugh - equal parts bitter pain and loneliness- crackled through the vocoder of his helmet. I can count on one hand the times I've heard Bruce do the same, but each moment he had was one worth remembering. Nothing hurt like a Wayne laugh because no one hurt like a Wayne.

"How'd you know I was here," I say. "Shouldn't you be buzzing around the sky protecting, well, everyone?" I straighten up and look where I'd assume his eyes would be.  
"Father used to say he could feel your presence like a weight on the world," Damien said. "I just followed my instincts."

"Still have those, huh?"

"Like you wouldn't believe, Clark."

"Why are you here, Damien? You never come down from the Watchtower unless you've got good reason. I'm sure you could see that I had this handled."

"I'd like a moment to talk, Clark. It's important and privacy is…" Damien's head whirred around to the small crowd watching Batman and a disheveled old man share words. "...Required."

"Not tonight, Damien," I say. "It's not been overly pleasant, and I'd like some time alone." I stumble forward and past Damien. I hear the hydraulic hiss of his suit as he turns and follows me while people cross active traffic just to stay out of his path.

The holo-screens of shop windows beside us flicker as he appears in each one, trying to get my attention. Damien, eternally middle-aged, stares through the screens; his dark hair streaked with a single stripe of white and his eyes blazing blue like his father's. He was a brilliant programmer in life, and he transcended the one thing a Batman could never beat. He conquered death. Programming himself into a perfect A.I form, he now was Brother Eye, the Batbots, and the entire global defense system. He was the last and only Batman that would ever be needed.

"You make a great screensaver, Kid," I say, cracking another grin.

"Very funny, Clark," he replies from dozens of faces while his machine batsuit follows wordlessly behind me. "At least I still do my job."

"And what job is that, Damien? Your father was a hero because he chose the difficult path. The human path. What he'd say to see you like this-"

Every screen on the block blazes with his face; A hundred pairs of blue eyes bearing down on me with nearly tangible heat. "I am The Batman!" each mouth echoes. "I've done more than my father ever dreamed. More than he ever could!"

The block empties with astounding speed, and soon it's just me, the suit, and a firing squad of piercing blue eyes. I measure my tone carefully, dropping down to a near whisper.

"He let his anger go, son. He passed on."

A quiet moment stretches out for what feels like an eternity, then one at a time each monitor returns to its regular broadcast. A firm iron grip seizes my shoulder, and his voice returns to the suit.

"That makes two of you," Damien says.

I remove his hand with considerable effort, something the average human would have no hope succeeding in, and walk forward without looking back. He doesn't know. How could he? His whole life was spent in the trenches. He was never given time to love, so how would he know the pain of a life without it?

"Hey," he shouts. "Don't forget your friend." I turn, and what remains of my borrowed bottle from the bar is whipped into my chest so hard it cracks. 'Wouldn't want you to be lonely."

I detect a hint of judgement in his robotic voice, and I'm not interested in hearing more of it. "Goodnight, Damien. Great job with my city."

"Not anymore," he says, but I'm already walking and too tired to turn around. It's been a night, and I need my bed.

The walk isn't far from what was my favorite hole-in-the-wall turned literal hole in the wall, to where I hang my hat. A small apartment on Luthor boulevard. The landlady is the great-granddaughter of Lana Lang. It really is a small world. She smiles at me while I walk up the stairs, and I can see the family resemblance even though age has begun to settle around her eyes. Lovely woman.

Two flights of old wooden stairs and I'm home. I set the bottle on my dual-purpose coffee table nightstand, and unfold my bed from the couch. It's simple, but I don't mind simple. On good nights, I can close my eyes and pretend the distant trains are rolling thunder over Ma and Pa's old farm house, but tonight was not a good night. The wrecked car, the dead body, and Damien. I'd been living a peaceful, albeit lackluster life for some years now. Why this moment? Why did my past have to come back and haunt me like memories of Lois? Everything was a jagged pill I've been trying to wash down with liquor.

I close my eyes, and a small, detestable part of myself hopes they never open again. Hours pass while I toss and sweat and mumble in my sleep. I'm flying through a crystal-blue sky with the world at my feet, the crisp snap of my cape behind me and an endless horizon ahead. I'm alive again.

The smell of smoke jolts me awake...


End file.
